His Heart Beneath the Bedsheets
by miss selah
Summary: It is as it has always been, only not nearly close enough. [Sylar uke x Mohinder seme]


* * *

**_His heart beneath the Bedsheets_**

* * *

His face is, as always, pressed against the abrasive rug and he is screaming, searing with pain, soaring with pleasure.

Maybe, possibly, he thinks that it could be different this time.

Out the window, the sun is _conspicuously_ absent, and the moon is nowhere in sight.

Contorting in agony, cold sweats and shakes, the needle is under his skin in a fashion similar to Mohinder; similar, but not nearly close enough.

Maybe, presumably, he thinks that drugs would be a good substitute.

Out the window, the sun is conspicuously absent, and the moon is _nowhere_ in sight.

His head is, as always, lost somewhere in that crook where his bed meets the corners, and his heart is laying somewhere lost between those sheets that still hold Mohinder's lingering scent.

Maybe, perceivably, he thinks that clinging to bedsheets and empty rooms could bridge the gap that had forged between them.

His hands are, as usual, clenched in tiny little white fist and he is staring out the window to an empty New, New York, where the sun is conspicuously absent, and the moon is nowhere in sight.

Maybe, though it is unlikely, Mohinder will show up tonight.

* * *

His chin is, once again, propped up on a palm as he stares at the paperwork, trying to make heads and tails of numbers and letters and strings of symbols that are utterly unidentifiable.

Maybe, likely, there is something here that his father has hidden for him, a secret note that was just for him, only him, explaining why he left him alone in India to chase a fool's dream. Some secret message that conveyed a love that Chandra had never been able to show him in real life.

All the while, the rain keeps pounding on his window.

His glasses are, as to be expected, falling off the bridge of his nose and he is simply too busy thinking, the clogs in that clock-like mind of his ticking ticking _ticking _for his to notice, much less care.

Maybe, understandably, he is burying himself with books because he can't bury himself in _him. _

All the while, the rain keeps pounding on _his_ window.

His eyes are, uncharacteristically, unfocused. He is staring past the letters and numbers and symbols that don't mean anything at all and he is seeing someone else, somewhere else, and is reminding himself of all the reasons that it is wrong wrong wrong and why he can't ever see him again. Ever.

Maybe, viably, it has become a mantra, his own step by step commandments that he recites like a good little pope, _why not fiddle with your rosaries while you're at it? _

All the while, the _rain_ keeps pounding on his window.

His hands are, understandably, clenching at the side of the metal bench, but it's not malleable, not the same way that his flesh was. It doesn't have the same give and it doesn't pucker it's lips in a soft moaning hiss.

Maybe, imaginably, he expected it to.

All the while, the rain _keeps pounding_ on his window.

The book is, despite the scientist in him, forgotten, and Mohinder is remembering the way he arched and the way the sweat tasted on his skin. He is remembering that place below his neck that was his favorite to be touched and the way he cried through broken sentances that he loved him far too much.

Maybe, comprehensibly, Mohinder wont tell anyone that he buried his face in the spine of the book and wept.

All the while, the rain keeps pounding on his window.

* * *

Their meeting was, decidedly, unpleasant. Don't let Sylar tell you otherwise, it was entirely accidental. On a street corner, in the dark, they pass each other on opposite sides of the street and watch every careful movement, every tightly coiled step.

Words, words, pretty pretty words might have been helpful if they had been said, but they lingered in the street between the two who had both stopped walking in favor of staring at what they had had but had lost and isn't that better, isn't it just?

Their gazes met for a moment, and for another they aren't looking at each other but looking at the past, remembering that bed that they used to share. Mohinder had given it to him, given it to him as payment like Sylar was some cheap prostitute, and as the memories got darker so did his eyes.

Words, words, pretty words, they would have been lovely if he had had the heart to say them.

In a flash, Sylar was gone, and Mohinder wondered if he had imagined the whole thing.

The only thing left of Sylar are his tears in the rain, and those are hard enough to find.

* * *

He is standing on the edge of the proverbial cliff, standing on the ledge of a thirty story building. The moon is there tonight, in a different sense of the word. He is one step away from the edge, on step away from cutting these teethers and taking that leap of faith. He's a hero, isn't he? With all his great powers, all the life that he has stolen from everyone else, things like God and Gravity don't apply to him, right?

For one brief, suicidal second, he wonders what would hurt more – dying or living like this?

He just needs to cut the teethers and actually take the jump.

The leap, the fall, the flying – gravity of the Earth or the gravity of his actions, of the words he didn't say but thought, and that should have been enough except for it wasn't.

Maybe he should say them now, even though there's no one around to hear them.

His laughter is a crazy thing, maniac and crazed. His eyes are closed and he is imaining he is a bird, and out of that sharp arch of his shoulder blades poke two white wings, stained in the blood of whomever he ripped them from. All he has to do is open his eyes, open his eyes and see the clouds come rushing at him, spraying him in a glorious red mist, flying high over the world that he has no business being in. . .

The moon is sinking, slowly, and the sun is rising. The light holds weight and it is smothering him in something fantastic, as he opens his eyes and he feels like breathing again.

His heart, broken like the porcelain thing it is, clenches. Useless organ was his downfall, really, and his blood boils up, a scream rises like steam in his throat.

Words, useless words except for the good that they did, threaten to come pouring out, but his vocal chords wont stretch. They are wise, those chords, because they saw the mess that words, pretty helpful words, left his heart in.

He doesn't have wings, but he is willing to bet that he can fly.

If not, well, falling is not that much different, is it?

A gut wrenching laugh.

He is laughing as though he is about to die and he is watching the sunrise because what else is there to do when you are this alone? He is a God! A God! A hero! Who stares down on the city of New York, laughing with triumph at his creation, his destruction, in this city where no one lives anymore?

Words, comforting words, won't come but it doesn't matter because they'd be useless now anyways.

It's over.

He stares up at the dark sky and the empty city, and all the empty words that he wanted to tell someone and wanted to hear echoe in his head. It's gorgeous, all of it, absolutely stunning. He loves it. He loves it like he can't love anything else, but he won't say those pretty, petty words, not now, not ever.

The sob twists in his throat and he takes a step. . .

* * *

He is silhouetted by the moon as he stands, perched, atop the ledge where Peter used to go before he was a hero, if he could ever really be called that. Mohinder isn't sure that it's him, but from the ground he looks close enough the he runs to the top, panting deep breath another step another step.

Words, echoing hallowly through his head, remind him of all the things that he should have said.

_I think I love you. _

Except he hadn't, because he had been worried that he was in love with an idea and not a person, something so different from him, so far outside his perfect world, isn't it, that he had only notice the some _thing, _and never the some one.

Another step, another stair, another gasp for breath and a pray that Sylar will wait for the sun to rise.

Maybe he should have said something, even if it was the wrong sort of something, the kind of something that he knew Sylar had always wanted to hear, from someone, _anyone. _

Mohinder knew that Sylar wasn't in love with him either, and so that made it okay.

But what if he _was?_

Mohinder throws open a door and is blinded by the sunlight, and he squints it away.

The rooftop is empty; the birds have all flown away.

There is nothing left of him except for a thousand pretty, petty words that still mine through.

* * *

Miss Selah - and that's the end of that.


End file.
